


Cross-Cultural Pâtisserie

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Porn Battle, tentabulge, terrible fish puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:51:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane tries to concentrate on baking. Meenah will have none of that.</p>
<p>For porn battle prompt "heiress, sass, baking"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross-Cultural Pâtisserie

When Meenah saunters into the kitchen and slaps Jane's shoulder, Jane's calm collapses like an amateur's soufflé. Crowding against Jane's back, pushing her against the stove, Meenah says, "Hey, shrimp, water you doin'?"

Jane tries not to grind her teeth. She has to keep an eye on the water in the saucepan; let it boil too long, and the almonds will go from "blanched" to "inedibly mushy".

"You deaf?" Meenah jostles her and raises her voice. "I _said_ , hey, shrimp, water you --"

"Doing, yes," Jane replies, flicking off the burner and lifting the saucepan. She dumps them in the colander, blinking away the cloud of steam, then turns on the cold water. "I'm blanching almonds."

Meenah digs her chin into Jane's shoulder to get a closer look. Her gill fin pulses against Jane's neck. "Look like pupal shells, yum. Tasty, tasty --"

"They're not --" 

Meenah's hand darts in and grabs a nut, Jane doesn't move fast enough, and then Meenah spits out the offending almond. A big chunk adheres to Jane's arm. "Those ain't pupal shells! What the glubbin' haddock are those?"

"Almonds," Jane says, wiping her arm clean before submerging the almonds in another bath of cold water. "As I said. Almonds."

"Human," Meenah replies, as if that explains _and_ condemns everything. 

She slides past Jane -- personal space is apparently a quaint human custom, undeserving of her Condescension's acknowledgment -- and hops up onto the counter. The heels of her vintage Mer Jordans bang the cabinet doors.

Jane shakes the almonds dry before spreading them on a baking sheet to toast. She breaks up matzoh crackers with her hands before adding the pieces to the spice grinder. She has to reach behind Meenah to plug the grinder in; Meenah doesn't move a centimeter out of the way. Her tank top is riding up, or her ridiculous raver pants are falling down; either way, Jane's hand brushes the small of her back. Her skin is cool, oddly poreless, somewhere between latex and fine leather. Any other (non-baking) time, Jane can't get enough of it.

But baking is about care and attention. As her dad likes to say, the cake's the thing. 

While the slivered almonds toast in the oven, Jane mixes potato starch and salt. The recipe says to use the food processor, but she uses her favorite sifter. It used to be her father's, and the noise it makes, whacka-squick-whish-whacka, is one she has heard all her life. 

"Lemme try --" Meenah leans across the range to grab for the sifter, but Jane edges away. She keeps squeezing the handle, keeps the sifting regular, even as she turns her back to Meenah and hugs the bowl to her chest. "Yo, plankton! Lemme --"

Jane sets down the bowl and gives Meenah the now empty sifter and an empty bowl. "Go nuts," she says. That should keep her occupied for _at least_ a minute, hopefully more.

Meenah tosses aside her toys after maybe thirty seconds. "This don't look like any baking _I_ know."

"Doesn't look," Jane says, then waves off the correction. When Meenah twigs on to being criticized, she just redoubles the effort to be as street (reef?) and obnoxious as possible. Jane hands her the springform pan. "Could you oil this, please?"

Meenah blinks, surprised; the goggles magnify her expression. "Shore," she says, slowly. 

While Meenah applies oil to the pan, carefully as a museum conservationist cleaning an Old Master, Jane whisks eggs and olive oil together before mixing in the dry ingredients.

"When _I_ bake," Meenah is saying, loudly, "I do it right. Get a good hunk of ambergris, crush up lots and lots of krill and strips of kelp, beat together with extra-virgin grub nectar until your servant's arm's just about ready to fall off, then --"

"How _does_ one bake underwater?" Jane asks. She pours out a jigger of Amaretto liqueur, then adds it to the batter. It smells amazing. "I've always wondered."

Meenah swigs from the bottle of olive oil, glass clicking on her lip ring, and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth before replying. "Which one of us is the batterwitch, huh? I know how to bake."

"I never presumed to think otherwise," Jane says, trying to maintain her cool, trying not to crack up. "That was a genuine question."

"You're a piker!" Meenah kicks out one foot and hooks it atop the kitchen island, effectively trapping Jane here before the stove. "Halfbeak halfpint baby fetus!"

"Oh? Is that so?" The calmer Jane remains, the more agitated Meenah grows. Its predictability is almost laughable. She starts to beat the egg whites together; the noise of the mixer does little to drown out Meenah's voice.

"Yeah, it's so!" Meenah jumps off the counter and backs Jane up into the corner beside the refrigerator. She barely has time to switch off the beater, and gets splattered with egg white for the delay. "Least you could do is _fight back_ , my cod, Crocker. You're limp as, as --"

"An anchovy?"

Meenah grins at that, her rage vanishing in the face of sheer delight. "Yes! Little busybody knowitall anchovy, that's you!" She pauses, cocking her head such that the shells in her braids clack together. Her voice lowers into a tone that's at once sweeter and hoarser. "Pretty, pretty anchovy."

Jane pushes her glasses up her nose and tries, futilely, not to blush. "Gracious. Your messages are becoming slightly...mixed, Meenah. Also, I have a meringue to finish."

"Mer-ang? Mer-ang!"

Jane grins. "Something like that."

When she picks the beater up again, Meenah crowds up next to her, arm around her waist, claws drumming against Jane's belt. 

"Almost done?"

The meringue remains shapeless. "Almost."

"How 'bout now?"

Jane lifts the beater, but the peaks that are left behind collapse immediately. "Almost."

Meenah huffs out an impatient breath. "Carp, carp, carp. Hurry the kelp _up_ , shrimp."

At last, the meringue peaks rise just right. Despite Meenah's best efforts to distract her -- including body checks, shoulder jostles, snapping the band on Jane's bra, and, always, yapping, yapping, never shutting up -- Jane manages to fold the meringue into the batter. 

"And...there we go," she says as she slides the cake pan into the oven and switches on the timer. "I'm all yours for the next twenty-five to thirty minutes."

Biting her lip, Meenah crosses her arms and says, "Maybe I don't want you no more."

Jane could play along, _also_ feign disinterest, and thereby hope to get Meenah all worked up again. 

Or she could cut through the cockamamie horseshit and go for it.

She goes for it, grabbing Meenah's upper arms, kissing her hard, pushing her back against the counter. Mixing bowls and eggshells tremble at the force. 

"Whale, whale," Meenah starts to say, but seems to run out of puns, not to mention ordinary language. She opens up to Jane's kiss and wriggles them around, their feet shuffling and tripping and stomping on each other as she turns them around, gets Jane against the counter. Her gill fins are swollen and flushed; the spray of coral-coloured freckles across her chest glows nearly scarlet.

Jane has nicked her lower lip on Meenah's fang. She's used to it; she's coming to associate the bright coppery tang of blood with sex, with _Meenah_ in all her salt-spray, ridiculous glory. She digs one hand into the tangle of Meenah's braids, tilting back Meenah's head, dragging the kiss down her throat, around one gill. She sucks on it, tasting oysters and nori, feeling it flex and pulse against her tongue.

The stand mixer rattles against her hip and she finally shoves it out of the way; it falls on its side across the stove.

Meenah's groaning now, that weird keening noise that must sound very different underwater. Her hips are pushing against Jane's, her hands flattening on Jane's breasts, grasping, claws digging in. She lifts Jane up onto the counter -- her strength can still shock and surprise, as sudden and intense as it is -- and tries to fumble open Jane's belt and fly one-handed.

"Let me --"

Meenah growls at her, her eyes slitted almost closed, fangs bared. She's very far from human, all the more so at times like this, times when Jane is barest and most vulnerable. (There are dissertations to be written on this contradiction, Jane is sure. Just not now. Or, really, ever.)

She pushes Meenah's hands away and makes short work of her belt and zipper; she lifts her butt off the counter and shimmies the pants down her thighs. When she sits back down, egg shells crunch underneath her.

"See? Not so difficult," she can't help saying, but Meenah's pushing up against her again, kissing her neck and pushing her hands under Jane's bra. It tangles up across her chest while Meenah's mouth trails downward. When her tongue grazes one nipple, Jane clutches at Meenah's head, shoving herself forward.

Maybe it's the heat from the oven, but Jane is roasting, shuddering under Meenah's touches, sweating everywhere. Her hands and mouth and pussy ache for more -- more contact, deeper and harder and faster. 

"C'mere," she says, and repeats herself two or three times before Meenah finally looks up, her mouth pulling off the underswell of Jane's breast with a slick pop. "Take off your cod-damn clothes, would you?"

"Abso-fluke-ly," Meenah says, and it's a terrible pun, but she's topless now, dorsal slits rising and falling, gill fins fully engorged. Jane loses her breath, her head going a little hazy, as she reaches over to tug down Meenah's pants and boxer briefs patterned with Nemo and Dorrie. Meenah's bulge spills out, damply throbbing, filling both of Jane's hands, squirming to touch Jane up her arms, across her thighs. It's like a cat's tail -- part of Meenah, to be sure, especially when its fronds and tendrils are stroked just right and Meenah starts swearing and grunting, but semi-autonomous, going where it pleases, seeking its own alien pleasure.

She doesn't have to do much, just scoot forward until her butt's right on the edge of the counter, let the bulge's tendrils wrap around one of her arms and probe at her clit and labia while she and Meenah resume making out. 

Meenah's hand works Jane's breast -- she's fascinated by them, to the point of fetishization -- while Jane jacks and squeezes the bulge. She gets one leg free of her pants and bends it up, foot flat on the counter's edge, in order to open up more fully. The tendrils are countless, suckling and teasing and tickling their way around her, brushing her open, thrumming against her hole, around the donut of her urethra, licking under the hood of her clit.

She pushes against Meenah, wraps her other leg around Meenah's waist, bounces and shudders and thrusts into the contact. Meenah's own orgasm is close, maybe closer than Jane's, as her bulge swells and slicks with salt-sharp oily fluid, as her lips pull back over her teeth and she stops breathing through her mouth. She buries her face in the curve of Jane's neck, then between Jane's breasts, biting down as the small, decorative fins down her spine rise and enlarge. They catch the light, break it and spray it into reds and greens, purples and indigos.

The oven timer dings.

Jane doesn't even hear it, caught in the glory they're making, curling herself around Meenah, opening and shielding all at once, riding that wave.

**Author's Note:**

> Jane is using [this recipe for amaretto & olive oil cake](http://www.gourmet.com/recipes/gourmetlive/2012/032812/amaretto-olive-oil-cake).


End file.
